(no subject)
Jul. 26th, 2009 05:07 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
walkstheboundsIt's not even a particularly deadly sort of world, but the city has a bit of a wild animal problem, giant raccoon-type things that wander about at night and rummage behind restaurants for food. They set traps for them.
No one would ever want a person to be caught in the traps, of course, and so, quite naturally, they paint neon signs with that world's universal symbol for "DANGER" to warn anyone who might be coming by. It's the law.
Jamie's made himself at home with one of the semi-legalized gangs of street children that hire themselves out for days of labor, supplementing their income with minor pilfering. No one thinks to tell him what the painted triple-crosshatches mean; he speaks the language well enough to be understood, and after all, everyone, even the immigrants from far-off Stavoslan, understands that neon purple means STOP.
Unfortunately, Jamie comes from a lot further off than Stavoslan.
He's behind a bakery, rummaging in the ceramic bins that serve for dumpsters for the day's leftover bread, when he brushes against the wrong part of the wall and a spiky metal half-circle snaps down over his arm.
Jamie swallows his howl, and grimly sets to work undoing it. He's been caught in bear traps before, and traps meant to catch humans, too; this one isn't all that vicious as things go. His arm's badly bruised, scraped one or two places, and marked with a lovely deep set of grimy puncture wounds, but he doesn't think much of that. In a few hours all he'll have left is some scabs, and in a few days, not even that. Injuries don't linger on Homeward Bounders. It's one of those rules.
(One of Their rules. But when you've not been at risk of long-term injury for a hundred years, well - habit can be the most dangerous thing of all.)
Jamie finishes his dumpster-rummage and heads back to the rented bungalow with his spoils, cursing under his breath to relieve his feelings but otherwise not thinking much of it.
When he wakes up the next day his arm's still throbbing, which is odd, but they've got a job to do down by the river, and part of gang membership is that you pull your weight. Jamie likes the kids he's with, and he doesn't want to get a name for a shirker. He pulls his sleeve down and heads over with the others.
When he wakes up the day after that, he's feeling hot and light-headed, his heart's beating too fast, his arm is shrieking bloody murder all the way up to his shoulder, and there's some sort of nasty dampness seeping through the fabric.
Jamie pulls up his sleeve to look, then pulls it back down rather hastily, wishing he hadn't.
The voice in his head telling him that he's an idiot sounds remarkably like Helen's, but that's probably just because she's the person most likely to be telling Jamie he's an idiot at any given time. At any rate, even light-headed as he is, the course of action seems clear. Worlds with good hospitals also tend to want real names and records and documents - and it's a general rule that the fewer people know and care who you are, the less people are likely to be interested in the quality of the medicine that you get.
Jamie quite likes his arm, and he'd rather not lose it. That leaves one obvious place for him to go.
The nearest Bounds are four miles away, which is a perfectly fine walk when you're in health. By the time Jamie reaches them, he's feeling very unwell indeed.
No one would ever want a person to be caught in the traps, of course, and so, quite naturally, they paint neon signs with that world's universal symbol for "DANGER" to warn anyone who might be coming by. It's the law.
Jamie's made himself at home with one of the semi-legalized gangs of street children that hire themselves out for days of labor, supplementing their income with minor pilfering. No one thinks to tell him what the painted triple-crosshatches mean; he speaks the language well enough to be understood, and after all, everyone, even the immigrants from far-off Stavoslan, understands that neon purple means STOP.
Unfortunately, Jamie comes from a lot further off than Stavoslan.
He's behind a bakery, rummaging in the ceramic bins that serve for dumpsters for the day's leftover bread, when he brushes against the wrong part of the wall and a spiky metal half-circle snaps down over his arm.
Jamie swallows his howl, and grimly sets to work undoing it. He's been caught in bear traps before, and traps meant to catch humans, too; this one isn't all that vicious as things go. His arm's badly bruised, scraped one or two places, and marked with a lovely deep set of grimy puncture wounds, but he doesn't think much of that. In a few hours all he'll have left is some scabs, and in a few days, not even that. Injuries don't linger on Homeward Bounders. It's one of those rules.
(One of Their rules. But when you've not been at risk of long-term injury for a hundred years, well - habit can be the most dangerous thing of all.)
Jamie finishes his dumpster-rummage and heads back to the rented bungalow with his spoils, cursing under his breath to relieve his feelings but otherwise not thinking much of it.
When he wakes up the next day his arm's still throbbing, which is odd, but they've got a job to do down by the river, and part of gang membership is that you pull your weight. Jamie likes the kids he's with, and he doesn't want to get a name for a shirker. He pulls his sleeve down and heads over with the others.
When he wakes up the day after that, he's feeling hot and light-headed, his heart's beating too fast, his arm is shrieking bloody murder all the way up to his shoulder, and there's some sort of nasty dampness seeping through the fabric.
Jamie pulls up his sleeve to look, then pulls it back down rather hastily, wishing he hadn't.
The voice in his head telling him that he's an idiot sounds remarkably like Helen's, but that's probably just because she's the person most likely to be telling Jamie he's an idiot at any given time. At any rate, even light-headed as he is, the course of action seems clear. Worlds with good hospitals also tend to want real names and records and documents - and it's a general rule that the fewer people know and care who you are, the less people are likely to be interested in the quality of the medicine that you get.
Jamie quite likes his arm, and he'd rather not lose it. That leaves one obvious place for him to go.
The nearest Bounds are four miles away, which is a perfectly fine walk when you're in health. By the time Jamie reaches them, he's feeling very unwell indeed.
